All Around the Darkness Gathers
by Dragovian Knight
Summary: Dragon Quest VIII 'Laughter is the one thing he remembers clearly...' A story of recovery and healing told in a series of drabbles. AngeloxJessica, postgame.
1. All Around the Darkness Gathers

**All Around the Darkness Gathers**

Laughter is the one thing he remembers clearly, escaping to put lie to her irritation, soft and sleepy as they lay tangled together in bed. He clings to the remembered sounds, the occasional sense that there is _more_.

On the edge of dreaming, her laughter might be followed by a voice, a glimpse of hair as fiery as her magic, the crack of a whip. Rising from sleep, he can sometimes taste her lips, soft and warm against his, catch the last traces of her scent on his pillow.

Always, the memories vanish like smoke, with only the laughter remaining.

* * *

Sometimes, he knows her, she is certain of it. 

He would sob out her name, and she'd gather him near as she always did, no matter how it broke her heart. Sometimes, for just a few moments, he'd see her, study her face as if to memorize it, or kiss her with a passion born of desperation.

She learns not to cry, learns instead to cherish those brief moments.

Always, inevitably, his blue eyes would cloud again, and he'd be drawn back into whatever nightmare world held him prisoner.

But sometimes, _sometimes _he knows her, and she clings to that.

* * *

He remembers bits and pieces of things associated with her, now, even if he can't remember her. He recognizes a whip, much like her favorite, in a shop; he knows the scope of her magic as well as his own. Sometimes, he thinks he can even remember the sound of her voice casting spells. 

The more he remembers, the more the world around him seems...wrong, disjointed. He notices things, a shop from Pickham in Baccarat, an odd blurring of the map where he thinks Alexandria should be, when he can remember Alexandria.

He wonders when his search drove him mad.

* * *

"Jess." 

Fearing a dream, she refuses to open her eyes, even when fingers, then lips, trace the curve of her cheek. Hard enough to bear during the day; surrounded by darkness and silence, she thinks watching him slip away might shatter her as thoroughly as he had been shattered.

His arms tighten around her. "I've searched for you," he breathes against her hair, "so long."

She long ago learned not to cry, but when she feels his body shake with sobs she can't stop herself.

But it still may be a dream, and she still refuses to open her eyes.

* * *

The world is coming apart. He doesn't care, because with every stone, every tree, every town that simply isn't, he remembers. Her voice, the perfect curve of her hip against his palm, her smile. 

One night, he dreams of finding her, holding her and kissing her and weeping for the sheer joy of it. He weeps again when he wakes.

The sky, no longer endless, breaks raggedly around the edges. He knows he should worry that the world will vanish before he reaches Alexandria, but he can't believe she won't be waiting for him, even if there's nothing else left.

* * *

The sun is rising, and Angelo is asleep. 

Jessica can't. She lays curled facing him, studying his face, but in sleep the smooth features tell her nothing.

She wants to kiss him awake, let him reassure her the previous night was neither dream nor agonizingly temporary miracle.

She can't. If he opens his eyes and doesn't know her, she'll die. Except she can't die; he needs her.

She wishes she could halt the sun in the sky. The ache of not knowing is less than the pain of losing him again.

She can't do that, either.

She can only wait.

* * *

When the sun vanishes, what's left of the world is kissed by pink and gold light. Under other circumstances it would be beautiful; now, there's precious little to catch the light, just the road and the void and something in the distance he prays is the Tower of Alexandra. 

Soon enough, the road is gone. He stares at the nothing stretched before him, remembering the time he told Jessica he'd journey to the ends of the world for her. This is the end of the world; he intends to keep his promise.

The emptiness is surprisingly solid beneath his boots.

* * *

Dawn spills into the room, and she can no longer bear it. 

She curves her palm against his cheek, feeling the scrape of stubble. As she leans forward to kiss him, she can almost pretend this is a normal morning, the way things were before.

Almost, and it's enough to make her tears spill as she draws back from his unresponsive lips. She tries to say his name; her voice is trapped, and instead she shakes his shoulder gently.

His eyes are as blue and empty as the sky.

The sound that escapes her is more primal than a sob.

* * *

He tastes her tears before he hears her sobs. 

He's dreamed the room, dreamed her, but never with such clarity. It feels real, in a way nothing has for months. He shies away from questioning, not wanting to find the false edges.

She looks up when he speaks her name, too thin, too tired, hurt and accusation in her gaze.

His face, reflected in her eyes, is gaunt, the hand which strokes her cheek skeletal. It horrifies him.

"Don't leave me again," she begs, and kisses him.

It feels real.

He'll accept the reality, as long as it includes her. 


	2. The ShadowTruths That Will Endure

**The Shadow-Truths That Will Endure**

She doesn't sleep well anymore.

She had thought it would be better once he came back to himself, but hope has replaced her comfortable despair, and with hope comes fear. So she sleeps restlessly when she sleeps at all, feels guilty for disturbing him when he gathers her against his chest and wordlessly soothes her back to sleep.

Then at least she knows he's still with her, and she can rest for a few hours, until the fear grows again and she's fighting the urge to wake him, talk with him, and dawn comes both too slowly and too soon.

* * *

"Jess, you don't have to keep checking up on me," he chides, because he can't admit even to himself that his distraction was caused by the need to be sure he remembered her face, her name. He twines his fingers with the ones gripping his shoulder, hating how broken and old he feels. "I'm fine." 

"I know," she says, and she's lying, they're _both _lying, and he hates that too, hates wondering if his lies are as transparent, if they wound her as hers wound him. 

He rests his cheek on their joined hands, and the lies stand between them. 

* * *

He's always...not angry, but impatient, with her, with himself, with the healers who tell him he needs to give himself time and a body that doesn't act with the thoughtless ease he remembers. Mostly with her, and she can't blame him, any more than she can stop the obsessive worry which annoys him. They don't argue about it, of course; after losing him, she can't, won't. She suspects that, too, annoys him. 

The days stretch. They gradually stop talking. 

She wouldn't have thought it possible, but this silence is infinitely more painful than the weeks of silence before it. 

* * *

He tells himself she isn't doing it intentionally. 

But he feels trapped, by the house, by her, by her damnable good intentions. The more his strength returns, the worse the trapped feeling grows. 

Once, they would simply have cleared the air between them, then made up with equal passion. It was a predictable, comfortable pattern, one which he would give a great deal to resume. Unfortunately, passion - like his freedom - is in distressingly short supply these days. 

He feels like an obligation, and in its way, that's worse than feeling trapped. 

Because he feels like he's trapping her, as well. 

* * *

She doesn't know why she's so shocked the first night he gathers her close and his hands, instead of offering the usual caresses to lull her back to sleep, begin to venture across her body in ways designed to keep her awake. 

She doesn't know why she pulls away from him, heart pounding with something closer to panic than desire, or why she curls the hand he kisses into a fist, tucked safe against her body. Or why she closes her eyes when he says her name, when she wants him so desperately. 

She does know why he turns away. 

* * *

He has his answer, no matter how unwanted. 

With precious little else to occupy his time, he broods over it, not wanting to believe it. But how can he explain away the wide-eyed look of horror she gave him as she withdrew to the far side of their bed, curled in on herself to maximize the distance between them? How can he dismiss the way she turned her face aside, eyes closed, when he spoke her name? 

He doesn't try to talk to her about it. The air grows thick with things left unsaid, until he feels he can't breathe.

* * *

The servants haven't seen him since mid-afternoon, and he's nowhere in the house. 

Jessica can't seem to get her mind past those facts to actually _do _something about them. 

Hours later, when he does finally return - weaving a bit with exhaustion, smelling of smoke and alcohol and cheap perfume, looking entirely too pleased with himself - a part of her mind remains frozen with hurt and fear. 

Her voice shakes when she asks him where he's been. He looks away in answer. 

She doesn't realize she's going to slap him until his already-flushed cheek is reddening and her palm is stinging.

* * *

It's a petty thing, refusing to answer her; he'd feel guilty, if the answers springing to mind weren't worse. He's almost relieved when she slaps him, gives him permission to be angry. 

Her hands fly to her mouth, her face goes from red to pale and back; instead of anger, he laughs, catches her around the waist and tumbles her onto the bed. "Finally," he murmurs against her lips. "I wondered where my wife went." 

"I'm sorry. I..." Her breath catches, and she's crying, brutal sobs like the ones he first woke to. 

He wraps protectively around her and waits.

* * *

She sleeps, really sleeps, for the first time since he woke, and in the grey of pre-dawn finds him watching her, the shadow of a bruise on his cheek. 

"I'm sorry." 

He catches her hand, kisses the palm, holds on until the impulse to pull back passes. "Far preferable to being treated like a pris...like I'm made of glass." 

She looks away; she can feel him studying her. 

"I even think," he says, in teasing, hopeful tones she once knew well, "I could survive the horror of seeing you naked." 

She tries to frown at him, and smiles instead. 


End file.
